brightflight:
Hawke’s grin was precisely as bright and as sharp as the switchblades she kept in her pockets. More and more, she found herself liking this cat. Anders and his crush notwithstanding, there was something about Nate Howe which rubbed her just exactly the right way. Just-this-side-of-Soc or not, the Howe had an edge to him; she figured she could cut herself on him if she wasn’t careful. And one thing Margaux Hawke never was, was careful.
“Try it, and your face’ll get a close, personal introduction to the pavement,” she informed him brightly, rolling her shoulders under her leather jacket as she brushed past him, out of the alley and onto the streets of Lowtown. He’d passed her little test, and with pretty flyin’ fucking colors, too. Maybe it was time to have a little pity on this troubled cat with his fur all up in a ruffle, give him a break, go easy on him for a while. Her teeth flashed unearthly in the mercury glare of the streetlight. Naaaaah.
“Polite’s good. Why don’t you show me how Soc boys treat their girls, instead,” she suggested. “Malted with two straws at the sodey shop, isn’t that how it goes?”
Sure, she was flip, but she got results. Everyone knew it. She’d cleared every rival gang out of Lowtown except the Carta, who were the next thing to cockroaches and kept coming back no matter how you squashed ‘em under your boots; and the Coterie, who pretty much ran the whole damn city from High to Low and even down to the Under, sticking their fingers into every pie.
But she followed Nate to the diner without any further quips – saving them up for later, anyone who knew her would think – and sized the place up as she stalked, crepe-soled boots nearly silent even on the slick black and white tiles of the floor, toward the booth Nate had staked out. Seemed like a nice enough joint, a couple cuts above the sort of place she usually went but no so high tone she was entirely out of place. Looked like there were a couple exits, too, and Nate was sensible enough to stay back from the big damn windows at the front; she liked his caution. Jived well with her own.
Sidelong, one little piece of her attention noted the odd little exchange between the gal at the till and Nate but didn’t mention it, just filed it away careful-like for later.
She picked a seat where she could still see the front door of the place and dropped into the booth, curling her legs up under her like a little girl. A waitress dropped by with fair dispatch – not the gal who’d scowled at Nate (an old flame, Hawke wondered?) but a pretty chit of a blonde thing who looked just about made for circle skirts and saddle shoes.
“Apple pie, heated up, with vanilla ice cream,” Hawke told the girl, wondering if her lips were really that pink or if it was some kind of bubblegum lip gloss, “and a cup of coffee. No cream.”
Indulgent of her, maybe, and maybe not so nice to insist Nate buy it for her. But Hawke loved apple pie, and she almost never got to eat it. They didn’t precisely have a lot of green to be spending on indulgences; Hawke was barely keeping her mom and sis fed and clothed with the basics as it was, and wasn’t like their deadbeat uncle ever did anything but lose money to card games and hookers. She damned well deserved this slice, she figured.
Once the girl was gone and her bobbing ponytail with her, Hawke leveled a look at Nate. “All right, Nathaniel Howe formerly-of-the-Wardens-crew… and yeah, before you ask, that does draw water with me… spill. What’s the deal. Am I just putting the fear of God into someone or is this a blood-and-guts job? I gotta have real good rationale for that kind, so you better talk fast and talk slick if that’s what you’re looking for.”
In some respects, Nathaniel was glad that his time with the Wardens had helped with his patience. People like Mar Hawke were the kind he usually avoided associating with, and not just because they grated on his nerves. He disliked that kind of cheeky, flippant attitude on principle; unfortunately for him, he’d had to deal with plenty of those types when he’d run with the Warden. Had Mar met him several years ago she might have found him a lot less tolerant (and a lot less willing to help). As it stood, her assistance was important, and he figured it was best to let her posture and try to poke at him until she’d had her fun.
She was, blessedly, silent for the rest of the trip, letting Nate choose the diner and their booth without complaint. He waved the waitress off once she’d received Mar’s order, confident that so long as one person was eating and drinking something they could keep the table. Delilah might not like having him here, but she wasn’t going to cause a fuss and get him kicked out. Not, at least, when he was accompanying a paying customer. (And apparently Mar intended to really make him pay for her time).
He folded his hands together on the table when she finally stopped beating around the bush, letting her say her piece before he began. “The amount of bloodshed depends on how they respond. If they go quietly, then no harm done. If they decide they want a brawl…” Nathaniel shrugged, seemingly indifferent to the prospect of further violence. “I’m not interested in doing more damage than is necessary. I want them to keep to their turf and stop sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.” Absently, he picked up one of the nearby forks, letting the utensil spin between his fingers. “I assume you’re familiar with the Carta?”
